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ao3bronte · 4 years ago

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when chaos reigns [the sirens come to play]

A Merman AU. (Rated T with some suggestive language.) Now on AO3!

[Prologue]

Covid-19 and covert relationships don’t exactly go hand-in-hand these days, but you really shouldn’t be touching anyone’s hands right now anyway.

…that is, unless you don’t belong to the same species.

Can Merpeople catch Covid-19? That’s debatable, but news doesn’t exactly flow freely from the depths of the South China Sea. Though we know very little about Merpeople and their ways of life, we do know that they rarely interact with humans, preferring to tear down their ships and rip apart their dams and levies in revenge for poisoning the oceans and seas with their human fossil fuels.

But this isn’t a story about environmental politics, or Covid-19 for that matter. This is a story about love and about putting aside differences. In this tale, Marinette discovers that the term ‘scalie’ (ou écailleux, car nous sommes en France) doesn’t always refer to the commonly known adjective to describe fish skin. And Adrien, bless his heart, really does need to put on clothes when he’s not rocking a fish tail despite the fact that he’d much rather be naked (much to Marinette’s mortification). Anyway you slice it, Merpeople and humans simply aren’t supposed to be together — they’ve always been sworn enemies through and through — but no matter what alternate universe we find ourselves in, these two idiots in love will always find each other.

This is, undoubtedly, their story.

[Part 1]

It’s the beginning of March and Tom and Sabine aren’t taking any chances with this whole virus situation. Marinette seems to catch everything — illnesses, hands, the whole nine yards — and they’d already been talking about sending her down to the Cote d’Azur to spend the summer with her grandmother Gina Dupain in order to get away from Paris for a little while. The constant schoolyard bullying from Chloé Bourgeois has dragged Marinette down so many pegs that Sabine is almost relieved to see Macron call off school for the foreseeable future and books both her daughter and her husband a trip to Marseille before the entire country shuts down for good.

Marinette isn’t happy, of course, but what teen would be? Her friends are in Paris! The fashion is in Paris! She doesn’t want to stay in some sleepy little Mediterranean village where nothing ever happens! Do they even have Wi-Fi there?

It’s a valid question. Tom doesn’t actually know, but he chatters enough for the two of them as the high speed train takes them down the rails to the south of France. Marinette’s sulk lightens a little as he pulls pastry after pastry out of his luggage in the hopes of making his daughter smile just a little before dropping her off with his mother — he knows that their relationship is a little strange after Gina’s last visit to Paris but there’s nothing a little quality time together can’t fix.

Petite Befana is one of those places you find on a postcard. Situated just on the edge of France and Italy, the fishing village’s brightly coloured houses gleam in the sunlight, peppered with lemon trees and winding alleys that seem to almost spill out into the sea. The beaches are craggy and feature small grottos and coves of underground caves that glimmer with seaglass when the sun hits them just right, hiding a pocket sized oasis here and there for the adventurous who like to explore at low tide. Gina likes it here because of the Place du Marché, but Tom often wonders as to the real reason why she’s settled in the quaint harbour after years of Eat, Pray, Loving around the entire planet after divorcing his father.

She’s certainly made friends with every woman in town by the looks of it. Along with her veritable swarm of bar-hopping friends, Tom keeps seeing a woman with pointed features and deep black hair with a violent red streak in it pop up on her Facebook page. They always seem to be in the same jazz club, not that Tom is really paying attention; if his mother wants to spend her golden years drinking negronis and dancing with her girlfriends, that’s up to her.

They disembark the train in Marseilles and take a bus to Toulon, then another bus to Petite Befana. Marinette is passed out and drooling on his shoulder by the end of it so Tom does as he always does and hauls her up like a sack of flour through the thick and winding labyrinths of cobblestone streets towards his mother’s apartment. Gina greets them once he eventually finds the place and, after tucking Marinette into the daybed in the guest bedroom, happily guzzles down the proffered beer on the terrasse overlooking the sea.

“I’ll try to come down as often as I can,” Tom assures Gina, not knowing just how bad of a clusterfuck 2020 was about to become. “I’m sure Marinette will come to appreciate all that Petite Befana has to offer.”

“I’ll take her down to the market tomorrow morning,” Gina assures him, patting her son’s beefy forearms. “There’s an older woman who sells the most beautiful fabrics and I already dusted off my old sewing machine. That should keep her busy.”

“Marinette’s never happier when there’s a project to complete,” Tom responds with relief, downing the rest of his Kronenbourg. “I bet she’ll have an entire closet full of clothes by the time the month is out.”

“And it should only take a month or two for this to blow over.” Gina jabs her thumb towards the television as the news of Covid-19 murmurs in the background amid the waves of the Med on the shore. “And then we’ll be back to normal before you know it!”

(...and we all know how that turned out.)

[Part 2]

Covid-19 affects a lot of people in a lot of different ways. Some feel stir crazy. Others enjoy the alone time. But Marinette? Well, she’s been trapped in the harbours of Petit Befana for three weeks now and our aforementioned heroine is already bored out of her skull. She’s made three dresses, four satchels and twenty two scrunchies with the leftover fabric because what else is there to do down here? Luckily, Covid-19 hasn’t quite affected Petite Befana like it has the other regions of France and Marinette is able to go outside at least...not that she wants to.

There are more artisanal bakeries and charcuterie shops in Petite Befana than there are nightclubs and high end boutiques, which is odd for a village so beautifully situated on the coast of southeast France. Gina proudly boasts that her new home is often bypassed by the glitz and glam of Monaco; lavish superyachts and the seemingly endless stream of paparazzi prefer the glamour and uberwealth just west of their little village, leaving its sleepy inhabitants mostly alone to sell their goods to the tourists that stop by for a night on their bicycles and scooters. Marked with the Italian influences of its neighbour, Petit Befana truly is the little-known last stop on the famous Cote d’Azur which makes it an inspiring landscape for Marinette to discover…

...for all of four days.

She’s already so over Covid-19 and, like any teenager, she’s getting more and more annoyed by the day that she can’t hang out with her friends! Why did Maman and Papa send her down here?! All she wants to do is get back to Paris and design! It’s not like there’s anything fun to do here anyway, besides play video games all day in her bedroom; the only places that offer free WiFi are closed and she can only play Animal Crossing for so long before her grandmother insists on making her get some fresh air.

Ugh!

Grumbling under her breath, Marinette pulls on her raincoat and stomps down the laneway from the terrasse towards the sidestreet where her grandmother’s 1920’s bastide-style home resides. From the cobbled alley, Marinette watches the colourful array of fishing boats land their day’s catch right up on the harbourfront and heads down despite the storm clouds brewing on the horizon.

“Bonjour!” A group of older men wave as she makes her way down the ancient steps, the pathway shaded by thick palms and cacti. She pauses just long enough to ask who’s winning their game of socially distanced pétanque before continuing her way through the pines towards the gravel and sand beaches that line the shore.

The seafront is mostly boarded up, much to both Gina’s and Marinette’s disdain. Her grandmother used to spend most of her evenings at the jazz bar La Sirena with her friends, not that Marinette got to meet any of them. The lockdown shuttered pretty much everything the day after she kissed Papa goodbye and settled into her new life for the next month, but with three weeks already stretching into four, Marinette dejectedly wonders if she’ll ever see Paris again.

Passing the last brasserie on the boardwalk, Marinette leaves civilization for the long stretches of barren coastline. There’s all sorts of little inlets and grottos here and there, especially as she gets closer and closer to the Italian border. Unfortunately, it’s only April, which means it’s rainy, generally unpleasant and completely and utterly empty on the beach.

“No one to talk to, nothing to do…” Marinette sighs and tries to kick a piece of driftwood, only to miss it with her foot in true Marinette style. The faux pas — quite literally — sends her screaming and flailing her arms like an octopus on a ceiling fan as she dramatically plummets face first onto the wet, slimy gravel.

She groans and pushes herself up on her hands and knees, wincing as sea-weathered stones dig into her palms and kneecaps. Marinette is, above all, a walking disaster in every sense of the word — sometimes she wonders if the powers that be seek out to deliberately punish her with embarrassing things like this on purpose for their own amusement.

(ಸ_ಸ … *cough* Zag *cough*)

Marinette whimpers as she wipes chunks of seaweed and brownish foam off her cheeks and chin. At least no one was around to see her fall over — thank god — but she’ll still have to do the laundry when she gets home. She’s covered in muck and little bits of oily slime that are sure to stain if she doesn’t wash it out soon. Marinette grimaces as she tries to shake it off of her hands; humans really have done a number on the seas and oceans...like, why is her front so sticky? She glances at some of the garbage on the shore as she sits on her haunches and wonders if the news has it all wrong. Maybe the merpeople taking potshots at rich people on yachts with old cans and plastic sea trash really do have the moral upper hand…

Marinette, being Marinette, would have continued to stare dazed and confused into space well into the afternoon had it not been for the impossibly shiny something or other sparkling in the grotto straight ahead.

[NEXT PART...]

#miraculous ladybug #mermaid au #lovesquare #adrinette #adrienette #Bronte's Mermaid AU #ml

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lyansi · 4 years ago

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Dulce periculum

Summary: Kagome isn't too sure how she found herself in this position. She often tells herself not to take on too much, not to allow herself to be deluded, and to not involve herself unnecessarily in every issue she comes across.

But how could she not? It was in her very nature to be compassionate. And, it was because of this disposition that she found herself in the middle of the night, on a Friday no less, deeply consumed with the sweet taste of danger.

Author Notes: Although Day 4 is an exploration of the sin greed, I have actually decided to explore its virtue: charity/generosity. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: Rumiko Takahashi is responsible for the Inuyasha series, I only lay claim on the story I have written.

The whispers of raindrops are the only sounds she hears as it thrums against her umbrella.

Pitter-patter.

Light sprinkles turn into a rhythmic beat as large droplets begin to splash on the parasol, against the sidewalk, and soak into her sneakers. Hopefully she can make it home before it soaks through to her socks. Pastel-pink lips part and blue eyes gaze over the lip of the umbrella, careful to avoid dripping rain onto herself. Street lights flicker to life with the setting sun. Higurashi Kagome sighs and closes her eyes, shivering underneath the too-big raincoat as a breeze passes.

Luckily, Miroku spared an extra umbrella and his raincoat for use— he insisted, in fact, to drive her home but Kagome was quite reluctant. She kept insisting that she preferred to walk the twenty minutes between the clinic and her house. That it was merely going to sprinkle. Anyway, he was leaving much earlier than she was and she still had much more medical paperwork to look over before calling it quits.

Early on during her undergraduate degree, Kagome began to volunteer at shelters geared towards at-risk youth. Although trained as a spiritualist and miko, where she helped her grandfather at the family shrine her spare time, she was much more invested in the community outreach programs. The human-youkai war had ended a century ago and although the larger more industrial cities lived in peace, there was still dissent in many rural parts of Japan. Often times, skirmishes lead to orphaned youkai and hanyou in foster care.

Read on AO3

In the last year of university, she had begun to look for outreach opportunities that would better prepare her for medical school. At the same time, Miroku, a graduate student, was looking for volunteers to help with his community project. She wound up spending many weeknights and weekends shadowing alongside the spiritualistic physicians who gave medical attention to young youkai and hanyou.

After Kagome started medical school, his small community project became a thriving medical clinic and shelter for those same at-risk youth. Thankfully she was able to choose his clinic in her pediatric rotation for her medical training, and often where she found herself working late on Friday evenings.

It was only after a few more hours of intense scrutiny over her clerical task that she realized that the sun had begun to dip into the horizon as streaks of orange and pink began to paint the sky. By the time she cleaned up her desk, and slipped into the large raincoat, even the last rays of sun began to wane.

And, what would have been a normal humid September evening was threatened by thick, gray clouds drifting overhead. Although rain was typical during this year— the weather app made no notice of such dark looking clouds that had begun to roll in as she locked up the clinic.

Using one hand, the woman grips at the neck of her coat, checking to ensure the fasteners are secure. When satisfied, Kagome quickened her pace. The office was not too far off from her home luckily. All she had to do was turn the corner here, walk three blocks up the street and—

Upon turning the corner, Kagome’s steps began to falter.

Standing underneath the stream of a street lamp and without any type of cover from the rain, a tall man stands with his back towards her. He is deep in conversation with an unseen person. The rain soaks into his shirt, clinging against his muscular form. One sleeve is rolled to reveal bright blue lotus flowers, woven alongside a slithering golden snake that wraps around a tanned forearm. Hands, balled up at his side, look bruise and stained with blood, washing away as the rain soaks him. Black hair drips with water, coming loose from its plait as it hangs down the expanse of his back.

Kagome’s eyebrows come together in confusion and immediately she senses that something is wrong. The man possesses no discernible jaki, so he must not be a demon, but he did not seem to hold reiki either leaning to the fact that he was just a regular human man.

It was his stance, however, that put her on edge. With feet spread wide and fists balled at his side, it was more than enough to make her shift with unease. She couldn’t see his face but knew for certain it must be contorted in anger. Feelings of anxiety begin to bubble in the pit of her stomach. Should she turn around to take a different path home?

Before she could make that decision, the man turns to her. She stares back in shock. Blue, angry eyes glare at her before Kagome notices it. Etched across his forehead in purple is a diamond star. A mark she recognizes belonging to a distinct fraction of criminals: the yakuza.

The man turns back down the passage, making a gesture as he does so. Kagome watches as he walks in the opposite direction casually and, not even moments later, another man emerges from the alley.

Like the first man, two vertical stripes emerge from the bottom of his chin and extends to his eyebrow line. In the middle of his forehead, a pointed mark was stamped. Unlike the first man whose hair fell to his waist, this man was completely bald. Beady eyes stared at her for a moment before he, too, walked away in nonchalance.

The young medical student lets out a breath she had not even been aware of holding. Kagome eyes the alleyway wearily. What exactly were those two men doing there? Maybe she should just turn around and find a different road back home after all.

Instead, she finds herself taking steps closer and closer to the entrance of the alley. At that moment the sky decides to opens up entirely and, what began as a slow drizzle, picks up speed and force. As she approaches the entrance, her heart begins to hammer against her ribs, lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub, as she remembers the stain of blood bright against tanned skin.

As Kagome peers with hesitance into the alley, her shoulders fall away from her chin. On the left side, the building wraps around with the entrance facing into the alleyway. Standing across the building were color coded trash receptacles. Nothing unusual stood out: she misinterpreted the scene for something more nefarious. It was, after all, a completely normal alleyway. Including the figure leaning precariously on the opposite end of the receptacles.

A soft gasp leaves Kagome’s lips and she rushes forward, the umbrella falling from her hands, forgotten. Soaked to the bone, a man is thrown carelessly against one side of the bin. Dark hair forms a curtain around his frame, matted against his skin and clothes. From her angle, she is unable to see his face.

“Hey! You— are you okay?” Kagome reaches out carefully and tries to rouse him. With his head tilted back in an ungraceful and seemingly uncomfortable way, Kagome can only assume him to be unconscious. She blinks away the suddenly onslaught of rain, wiping at her face as it presses her fringe to her forehead.

When Kagome presses a hand against his chest to check for a heartbeat, she feels a sudden warmth. Quickly pulling back her hand, Kagome is astonished to see her hand dripping in bright, red blood. He was injured!

“Oh no, oh no…” Kagome looks behind her. She is certain that no one would be walking around in this weather. Furthermore, walking in a residential area, there were few businesses that are still open this late. Biting her lip, Kagome decides the best solution for this situation is to get him to a place that could help.

“Hey— I’m going to help you… if you don’t want me to, you have to tell me now.” She bites her lip, knowing she is making a useless gesture by asking for permission. Even if he were conscious enough to deny her assistance, she would still insist upon it. She was compassionate, after all.

When the man makes no response, Kagome slides an arm underneath his back and works to lift him up. The sudden movement causes the man to rasp for breath, his head and chest leaning forward against her shoulder.

Using her strength, she pulls the two of them straight up. The man is definitely much taller than Kagome and she has to lean the both of them against one another.

For a moment, she wonders at the repercussions of taking this stranger to a hospital. Obvious reasons plainly indicate that taking him to the hospital might be the better place however, it may lead to some unsavory questions and refusal to assist in gang violence (because, honestly, what other situation could this be?).

Anyway, if he didn’t have his health insurance card on him, Kagome feared she would be stuck with the cost of his medical care. While she was generous to a fault, paying for a strangers very expensive medical bill helps to separate the line between generous and stupidity.

So, she makes the decision to take him back home with her. It didn’t seem like he had a weapon on him and, regardless, he was too injured to even think of hurting her. She makes a mental note to call Miroku in the morning, already knowing the firm lecture she will receive.

Thankfully, she works in a high-volume hospital and had come across her fair share of gang-related victims. This would not be the first time she patched up an injured person. And, at least it was a human this time. Some of the demons and hanyou she worked with were much harder to care for alone due to their naturally aggressive temperament when under threat.

She isn’t sure how she did it, but somehow she was able to make the trek back home. Kagome is surprised by her own strength to make it up the steps to the shrine, over the courtyard, and into the house. The rain was quick to pass through and she was able to avoid slipping through puddles.

Upon arriving, she lays him on the dining table, grateful that one of the entrances opens into the kitchen.

“Mama!” Kagome calls out, exhausted and soaked.

No answer.

“Mama? Oji-chan?” Kagome calls out again, frowning. Were they not home?

“Souta?”

Still— no response.

She walks around the kitchen as if to look for some clue. Finally, she finds it: taped on fridge door is a note written in her younger brothers handwriting (Oji-chan wanted to visit the Gero Onsen Town in Gifu. We will be back on Sunday. Mom says to lock up!).

“Great, just great Kagome.” She mumbles to herself, eyeing the unconscious man. His breathing has become harsher, and a sweat is beginning to break out across his forehead. At least she wouldn’t have to explain to her family why she brought an unconscious, wounded man back home.

With measured speed and accuracy, Kagome begins to move around the kitchen. She grabs scissors from a drawer, several clean dishrags, and fills a bowl with water. She rummages through several cabinets before finding her emergency first aid kit. Immediately, she begins working.

The first thing she does is to remove his shirt with care. Seeing how she was unable to determine where his wound was or the extent of it, cutting his shirt down the middle was her best option. Once the cloth gives her an unobstructed view of his chest, Kagome dips the dishcloth in the water and begins to dab away blood.

Had the situation been different, Kagome would have bashfully reveled in the expanse of skin. Whoever this man was, he definitely cared for his fitness. Muscles pulled taut at his abdomen and his Adonis belt dipping below the waistband of his pants.

Once Kagome cleans the blood away, it becomes easy to see the knife puncture below his false rib. Maybe due to the fact that she had put unintended pressure on the wound dragging him down the street, it was not bleeding as heavily as it could have been.

It definitely is not as deep as she originally thought and the location is not nearly as severe as some of the other injuries she had cared for in the past. With rest and care, she was certain this man would make a proper recovery.

What shocks her more than the knife wound is the number of bruises that mar his body. Lesions of different sizes and hues of purple smear themselves up his chest. She isn’t sure what warranted such an attack on this man but she was sympathetic to his pain.

Kagome works to dump the soiled water and the rags into the kitchen sink. Filling a saucepan with water, Kagome places it on the stovetop to boil. She scrubs her hands and underneath her fingernails clean and moves to remove the suture kit.

As the water boils, Kagome throws her instruments into the water. After a few minutes and using a strainer, she removes them and places them on a napkin. Kagome irrigates his wound with fresh water, before she begins to suture up him up. While working, Kagome is unaware of the passage of time. She isn’t sure whether the stitching takes her ten minutes, or an hour. When she is finally done, she throws herself down into one of the chairs closest to her and stares at him.

Reaching out, the young woman pushes away hair from his face. For the first time, Kagome actually takes a good look at the man.

Thick, dark eyebrows frame over heavy-lidded eyes. A prominent, straight nose protrudes from the middle of his face. The young woman’s eyes follow down towards full lips and a thick, muscular neck. Had it not been for the current situation, Kagome would have blushed at staring at him with such earnest.

At the top of his chest, Kagome realizes that a tattoo adorns his skin. The ink wraps around his pectoral, upper shoulder, and down his bicep. She leans closer to examine the design. Along the upper part of his chest protrudes the figure of a large canine, as if emerging celestially from the heavens itself. Golden eyes with flecks of red and yellow stare back at her. The dog vanishes in hues and shades of blues clouds that trail down his shoulder and along his bicep. Cherry blossom petals cascade around his elbow.

Reaching out a hand, Kagome traces the canine figure along his bicep. She fingers the clouds along his shoulder, and follows the path of the sakura petals. For the briefest of moments she questions if she did the right thing to care for his wound.

Exhaustion answers her, instead.

Getting up, Kagome begins to clean. She throws dirty rags in the sink, she wipes down dried blood from the table and counters. After cleaning and putting away her first aid kit, she checks the time on her phone. The backlight flashes back at her, 12:37 AM. Sunrise would be happening soon enough and she was expected to wake early in the absence of her grandfather and brother to start Shrine duties.

Should she leave him on the table then? She isn’t sure she has the strength to take him up the stairs to one of the rooms. “He may be more comfortable on the futon, though…” Kagome mumbles to herself. She slides open the shoji that separates the kitchen from the living room.

The young woman rummages through the cabinet space in the living room and pulls out the spare futon. She pushes the chabudai out of the way and throws the zabuton to the side before walking back into the kitchen.

Pulling the man off of the table, Kagome is careful to not tear open his stitches. Already exhausted between her long day and now treating this stranger, she relies heavy on the wall for support as she makes her way into the next room.

She successfully avoids the chabudai and manages to all but drop him on the futon. For the first time, a weak groan emerges from him.“Oh— shoot! Sorry, sorry.” She kneels next to his prone figure, checking over his stitches.

Satisfied with her results, and fatigued from the day, she decides to lay down on the tatami next to him.

She’ll lay only for a minute.

Kagome sighs and closes her eyes.

One minute to recharge herself.

Her breathing begins to slow.

Only a few more seconds and she’ll get up to go to her room.

Kagome is sure she must have fallen asleep as she imagines a pulling under her neck and below her knees. Her neck tilts to the side as she feels herself pressed against a firm torso. Her arm falls away from her chest and, although she should expect it to feel the tatami underneath her, she does not. In fact, she feels nothing as it dangles.

As if someone were carrying her.

Kagome startles awake, her entire upper half jumping up from her horizontal position. Heart hammering in her chest, it takes her a moment to clear away the sleep and confusion. She immediately recognizes her desk, the curtains, and her bed. Her comforter falls away from her, thrown back upon her sudden wakefulness.

When did she get in her room?

Kagome thinks to the night before: the tattooed thugs, the injured man. At some point she must have fallen asleep and awoken again to climb the steps to her room. She decides she should go check on the man.

As she begins to spring out of bed, Kagome sees her curtains flutter. Frowning, she realizes that for whatever reason, she decided to open the window. She approaches it and shuts the window tight, pulling the curtains open. The sun is beginning to peak over the horizon.

Kagome turns and begins to make her way downstairs. She decides to check on the man before she changes into her miko uniform. Although her family’s shrine has served the area for five centuries, it was not a huge tourist attraction. Usually, on a weekend, there would only be one couple who bothered to come before mid-morning. This gave her ample time to check on the man, change, and even fix herself (and him) some breakfast foods.

As she makes it to the last landing of the stairs, she full expects to see a dark-haired man laying down on the futon. What she does not expect to see, is an empty futon when her fingers flip on the living room light.

If he was awake and moving, where could he be?

Oh man, bringing him back home was a bad idea. What was she thinking?! Her family was definitely going to come home to see her mangled body thrown on the tatami. How could she be so selfish? And here she thought she was acting with genorisity.

Kagome swallows, glancing behind her, as if expecting to see him standing on the stairs above, like some axe-wielding murderer. He isn’t though. Nor is he in the kitchen or any of the rooms, or bathrooms.

“Hello? Hello! Come out please!” She calls out as she moves around the house from room to room. The man isn’t there. Nothing seems to be out of sorts either. Hands on her hips, Kagome huffs and glares at the empty futon.

After searching the house twice, she decides to give up. Either he was hiding too well for her to find (not that there were even any hiding places in the house) or he got up and left.

No note or anything! Not even a thank-you!

As she stares down the empty futon, Kagome notices a thin, string-like object thrown across the bed. Frowning, she kneels to get a much better look, noticing the droplets of blood that stand out against the cot. Frowning, she immediately recognizes the suture thread stitched into his skin hours before.

Did he rip out his stitches? How could he be so ungrateful and do something so careless! He must be bleeding all over again— wherever he was. In the end though, Kagome recognizes that there was nothing she could do. For whatever reason, this man decided to refused to accept her help. She hopes he would seek medical attention elsewhere, if needed.

But Kagome knew she couldn’t allow such thoughts to plague her. Shaking her head back and forth, she balls her fist. By doing so, her fingers tangle in long, silverly threads of hair. She pulls her hand up to examine the fine tresses, eyebrows furrowing together.

Was her Ojii-chan using this futon to sleep in? It would make sense, but the hair seems way too long. As she lengthens the threads to asses the size, she knew that it could not have been her grandfathers hair. With a span this long, it would fall down to her knees. Who else could have such long, thin silvery hair?

Was it possible that her grandfather had a lady friend?

Shuddering, Kagome balked at the thought of her grandfather being that friendly. It definitely did not fit his personality. Anyway, her mother was always home— the older woman would have mentioned it to her that he had someone stay the night. Maybe she should ask them about it when they returned— it’s possible that her mother was sworn to secrecy with this matter.

Chuckling to herself, Kagome begins to fold the futon. She returns it back to the closet and begins to straighten the room. Once she decides the living room is clean, thrown the dirted rags in the wash, and wipes and disinfects the kitchen, Kagome begins to prepare for her day, suddenly more excited than normal.

She couldn’t wait to find out exactly how her grandfather would react to his secret being revealed.

#inuyasha sins #inuyasha fanfic #inuyasha fanfiction #inuyasha #inukag

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jaquemederambandeira · 5 years ago

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i’ll follow you, a playlist based on diana, river an daniel’s relationship

This is the eye of the storm It's what men in stained raincoats pay for But in here it is pure

#diana #dive in mars #playlist #i made #diana*

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gilmoursgirl · 5 years ago

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"oh this, this the eye of the storm.

Its what men in stained raincoats pay for.

But in here it is pure"

#pulp #britpop #jarvis cocker #this should have been a bond theme.

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swanandapirate · 6 years ago

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A Muted Hue of Grey (4/14) -- CSBB

Summary: Emma Swan liked being a PI in Boston. It was a fun job, she had an okay income and she was a good one at that, so there was no logical reason to try and leave. Except for the fact that she wanted to, so badly. And, when she received a job offer for what seemed to be the opportunity of a lifetime, she did exactly that. Leave. Run. All the way to London. The job was simple: trailing a man called Killian Jones. Easy enough.

Well, until things get complicated, that is.

Rating: M (later mentions of violence, alcohol abuse, and sex)

Wordcount: 3604

Links: ao3 // ff.net // chapter 1 // chapter 2 // chapter 3

A/N: Eeeeeepp you guys, your feedback makes me so happy. It's been a real struggle to complete this fic with very little feedback and now I feel so spoiled <3 A cute, flirty chapter as a thank you :) The feedback that I did get these past couple of months was amazing, however, all thanks to these two crazy ladies @ofshipsandswans and @acourtoftruelove

And also thanks to @shady-swan-jones for the feedback and the art she gave in return!

-------------------------------

While giving Killian her phone number when he had asked her was a good way to keep in touch, she should probably have thought it through and asked for his number in return. Because now she was thoroughly stuck. Dependent on him, forced to be at his beck and call when he deemed the time since they had last seen each other respectably long enough to finally reach out.

Which meant she had to wait until he contacted her and considering she had literally nothing else to do, she was pretty bored. But she waited.

A day.

Another day.

She’d waited a grand total of five days before her phone had rung and showed a text from a number foreign to her phone.

Hi, Emma. This is Killian. I was wondering if you would fancy a coffee?

On the one hand, it did bring a big advantage hanging out with Killian. She wouldn’t have to follow him anymore, wouldn’t have to try and figure out what he was up to when she could simply ask him. But it was a line. There was a line and Emma did not know if she could cross it. Ethically speaking, her profession already skirted the edges of what was just and respectable, but the line was something personal; a border somewhere inside of her. This was knowingly betraying someone, playing double agent and to do that to someone who had no idea what he was involved in seemed unfair. She would do a lot to ensure that she thrived but knocking someone else down was a step too far.

Emma: When and where?

Killian: Are you always this dry in your texts?

Emma: Straight to the point, what’s wrong with that? It reminds me of back when you still had to pay by the text.

Killian: Dark and turbulent times, they were. Would 11 am tomorrow work? We could meet at Fika.

Emma: Fine by me.

Killian: See you then, Swan.

-/-

The heatwave that had tormented the country earlier that week had definitely left for good and pouring rain had taken its place. Rain, wind, and thunderstorms, but the oppressive sensation remained in the air. She loved summer storms—even though it was technically still spring. The moment when the electricity was almost tangible in the air, when the skies burst open, cool water a relief against warm and sunburnt skin. The blue flashes of lightning lighting up an orangey sky. But for the past few days, it had only rained. And rained. And, big surprise, rained. So much that the normally soothing clatter of it against her window now only bothered her and made her hanker for quiet—for the little taps against the glass to stop.

The little taps that were now attacking her umbrella as she walked. An icy blue-colored logo caught her attention and when she approached, the name of the shop in big letters of the same color became visible. She had arrived

Her head went from left to right while checking the street for any incoming traffic and when it was safe—no cars, buses, or cyclists in sight—she crossed. A couple just walked out of the coffeehouse, the two men smiling at her as they held the door open for her to enter. Emma smiled back, almost touched by the small act of kindness their gallantry brought. The couple exited and she entered.

Emma let her eyes roam and let her mind take in all of the new impressions. The inside decorations were clean and tight, nothing she’d expect a coffeehouse to be. Straight lines, bold colors. It was modern, something she never would’ve guessed watching from the outside. It looked like an IKEA showroom but on a whole different level and with a touch of hipster. She liked it. Obviously, someone with a clear vision had searched and matched furniture, had created this whole concept between four walls.

There was a colorful display of cupcakes that snatched her attention away from the decor and refocused it on the grumble of her stomach. She’d skipped breakfast—hadn’t had time to as she set her alarm for a time that had only left time room for her to dress fast and leave. Besides, it was 11 am and a Sunday—brunching was a thing. A thing mainly invented to be able to start drinking alcohol at breakfast and have it be socially acceptable, but a thing nonetheless.

“Swan!” was shouted somewhere above her and soon she saw the man to whom the voice belonged descending from a pair of stairs, his feet thumping so quickly that, before she could properly turn around, he was already standing beside her. “Hello.”

“Hi,” she returned the greeting.

“Welcome to Fika,” he beamed. “Also known as my current employment,” he admitted after a beat or two.

“A cupcake shop?”

Of course she, as PI Emma Swan, knew where he worked. But she also knew that Emma, the girl that had only recently met Killian wouldn’t know that and would have to be surprised. Or act as if she was surprised. Back to the acting, it was.

“And café. We sell really good cupcakes.”

“Okay.” Emma shrugged, accepting the explanation she didn’t really need or require. The cupcakes already looked delicious, she was sure they’d taste delicious too.

“I take care of the PR,” he continued to explain, almost trying to justify his profession.

“Of a cupcake shop and café.” She nodded while repeating his earlier words. “Got it.” She wasn’t trying to be rude or anything, but Killian’s slightly fumbling behavior about his job was keeping her from eating the aforementioned mentioned cupcakes. She’d gladly talk about it all (how he worked in a cupcake shop and a café) once she’d devoured at least one.

“We do have really good cupcakes.”

“I suppose I should try them at some point then.” A subtle hint. Some point clearly meant right now. Which Killian got, a nod confirming had gotten the message. Points to Killian.

Emma took another look at the display and singled out a couple of varieties she would not mind tasting at all.

A dark wooden door opened, revealing a pale woman with even paler hair. Her piercing blue eyes matched the color of her jumpsuit and frantically searched her surroundings for something until they stopped. They were looking for someone apparently.

“Sven!” She walked towards one of the waiters. “Where are the carrots for the carrot cupcake? Did you eat them again? How many times do I have to tell you that—” She stopped mid-sentence when her eyes caught sight of the two of them, now awkwardly shuffling on their feet as one did when they were a witness to something they were not supposed to see. “Killian! What are you doing here? It’s your day off. You couldn’t miss the sweets,” she concluded with a disapproving shake of her head, a few strands of white hair escaping her braid.

“Of course I couldn’t. Also, where else am I going to get an employee discount?” He winked.

“Nowhere because I’m your boss and I am going to keep it that way.” She turned to Emma, her white-blonde hair glowing in the dimmed and cozy lighting of the cafe. For a moment she simply watched her, her direct stare thoroughly looking her over, before her expression shifted from concentration to kindness and she smiled. “Hi, I’m Elsa.”

“Emma.”

“Nice to meet you.” She inclined her head, her braid moving against her shoulder. “Take a seat, someone will be with you right away.”

“Thanks!”

Killian’s prosthetic motioned towards the sitting area and as she walked in front of him, Emma could pick a place for them to sit. Eventually, she led them to a dark wooden circular table; not too secluded and far off from the counter but far enough to avoid the bustle of waiters moving about and customers lining up. Emma set her umbrella on the ground, hung her bag on the chair and took off her green raincoat before covering her chair and bag with it. Killian patiently waited and only sat down as she did, the both of them simultaneously scooting their chairs closer.

Here they were again, sitting across each other, having a tête-à-tête. But, while their previous encounter was an impromptu meeting, unforeseen and spontaneous, this one was planned. Agreed upon. Which meant that the stakes were considerably higher.

Killian could decide after today that he didn’t like her and wasn’t interested in spending more time with her. While her ego would most likely bruise upon hearing that, it was mostly the mission she was worried about. A lot was riding on the assumption that they would continue to hang out and she’d be able to continue this undercover assignment and if they didn’t, Emma wasn’t sure how she could fix that. She couldn’t undo her choice of approach and if he saw her trailing him, he’d surely think she was a stalker—a logical deduction. She had to make this work.

“The weather has been terrible, hasn’t it?” she asked, glancing to the big rain-stained window. “I want last week’s weather back.”

“Aye, I preferred having the sun, too.” His shoulders moved in a shrug and he cast a glance outside as well. “Oh well, you know what they say: if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

“Sorry?” she asked while leaning closer and frowning. “Who exactly says that?”

“People?” Killian answered with his own question, a whimsical look on his face.

She laughed and his hand went up to scratch the back of his head.

“No,” she said to try and stop him from feeling sheepish. “I mean, I like it but I tend to go for my own version which is: life fucking sucks, deal with it.”

“Which is also an approach,” he agreed while smiling, “Albeit a distinctively different one.”

“That’s why you work in PR and I don’t.” Her shoulders rose. “Speaking of: what does ‘taking care of PR’ entail exactly?”

“A bit of everything,” Killian replied. “I run the social media sites, write newsletters, respond to any complaints.”

Emma took one of the menus that lay on the table and unfolded it, letting her eyes roam over all of the possible foods and drinks she could drink compiled in a classy and clean list.

“I wouldn’t believe this place has any complaints. Look at this.” She pointed at no specific part because everything had the same level of quality and refined taste in decoration, everything fit the picture and vibe perfectly.

“It rarely does. Elsa is too professional for people to even try and find something negative about this place. But some people just can’t be pleased.”

“I don’t have the right temper for PR,” Emma admitted.

She’d get frustrated with people and roll her eyes constantly which would, in turn, frustrate the other person even more and they’d end up in a never-ending cycle, or perhaps it would end with Emma fired.

“I’m a patient man. And I’d like to think of myself as quite cordial and persuasive.”

Before Emma could either confirm or deny his statement, a waitress made her way to their table, a welcoming smile directed at them. She held a little notebook in her hand and flipped it to the next blank page to take their order. She had stashed her pen behind her ear and retrieved it, pressing the top to extend the tip and having it at the ready.

Her freckles were spread all across her pale skin, adding to the innocence that seemed to radiate off of her.

“Well, who do we have here.” She tilted her head to Jones. “Why are you here? Not that you can’t be here but it’s your day off.” She looked at Emma before leaning closer to Killian. “Ooh, who’s that?”

“Anna, easy.”

The woman took a big breath and slowly released it again. Her hands went up. “It’s okay, I’m calm.”

“Perfect. Emma, this is Anna, Elsa’s sister. Anna, this is Emma, a friend of mine.”

A friend of his. Was that their label now? They’d gone from strangers to friends. It was a positive sign, one that said she was making progress and didn’t have to be that afraid of Jones not wanting to hang out anymore.

“Hi, nice to meet you!” Anna greeted her excitedly.

“Nice to meet you, too, Anna.”

“What can I get ya?” Her red eyebrows soared with the question.

“Oh, I’m not sure yet.” Emma grabbed the menu again and suddenly the clean piece of paper felt overwhelming, filled with so many options and choices.

“Take your time. Fika is really important.”

Was she describing her own coffeehouse as really important? There was nothing wrong with some confidence when it came to your business but praising it to customers like that might not leave the best impression. Killian watched Emma and seemed to have picked up on her reaction to Anna’s statement.

“Anna doesn’t mean that the coffeehouse itself is really important,” he clarified and Anna herself realized that Emma had misinterpreted her words too.

“Oh no! Elsa and I grew up on the border of Sweden and Norway, and fika is this big, almost sacred thing there. See it as a coffee break but obligatory. It’s a ritual to avoid stress and we wanted to bring some of that mentality here, in one of the most stressful cities of the world, hence the name.”

“Wow, that’s nice. I really like that.”

“I really like you,” Anna responded. “You did well, Killian.”

“Just friends, Anna,” he reminded her. “I think I’ll go for an ordinary black coffee.” He brought everyone back to the matter at hand.

Right, they were ordering. Emma took another look at the menu, actually reading their options this time and trying to decide what sounded the most seductive.

“I’ll have a triple chocolate cupcake and a mocha latte, please.” She looked up from the menu to Anna and smiled.

Once she finished scribbling, Anna shut the notebook again. “Coming right up,” she said with her own smile before returning to the counter.

“Apologies for Anna. She gets overly excited about almost everything but she’s also about the sweetest person you’ll ever meet.”

“It’s fine. She does seem extremely kind.” She took the menu and stored it back with the others, the table empty again.

Killian hummed along with a song softly playing on the speakers spread around the café, his fingers tapping on the wood of the table. The hum was barely there, under his breath as if he couldn’t help but take part in the music, his blood thrumming with every note.

Suddenly, he remembered he had company and the drumming brusquely stopped, so did the humming.

“Sorry, it’s a bad habit of mine,” he apologized.

“Don’t apologize. You’ve got a good voice,” Emma complimented and it was a genuine one.

“Thank you. Believe it or not, I used to be part of a band.”

The band was called Neverland, Jones was lead singer and guitarist of the band he’d founded together with three of his friends back when he was twenty-three. She didn’t have to believe him because she knew.

“Would it be bad if I said that I’m not surprised?”

Killian eyed her warily. “That is going to depend on why you’re not surprised.”

“You’ve got that whole rocker vibe going on. The tattoo, the necklace, the ever-present chest hair, the I-woke-up-like-this hair, not to mention the leather jacket,” she summed up using her fingers to count. “It either screams ‘I’m in a band’ or ‘I’m aspiring to be in a band.’”

He narrowed his blue eyes as he watched her. “I’m attempting to assess if that’s meant as a compliment or not.”

Emma lifted her hands, letting her eyebrows soar in a playful manner. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” A smirk played on her lips.

“Perhaps I would,” Killian replied, not missing a beat. Suddenly, everything felt more intense, the entire atmosphere shifted, coming down as a heavy feeling on her chest. It might’ve been his husky voice or the way he looked at her, but something was definitely happening and she had no control over it.

Before it got out of hand, she saw Anna approaching out of the corner of her eye. Emma let out a silent sigh of relief both because of the diversion and because the redhead was carrying a tray with the cupcakes she had long desired after.

“Here we are,” she said once she approached their table. Dimples appeared in her freckled cheeks as she kindly smiled before setting down the drinks. “So that’s a triple chocolate cupcake and a mocha latte for you, Emma.” Anna turned to Killian. “And a simple black coffee for you, ya big bore.”

“Oi,” he remonstrated. “Will you let me have my coffee in peace, please?”

“At least Emma got something interesting,” Anna argued, flicking one of her two auburn braids off her shoulder.

“We’re picking sides now, are we?” He crossed his arms in discontent. “And here I thought being your nice and dedicated colleague for months would put me ahead of a virtual stranger.”

“To be fair,” Emma interrupted, “my drink has chocolate and yours doesn’t, so I think it’s clear who the winner is here, Jones.”

Anna lit up and giggled when Emma joined her in making fun of Killian’s lack of originality. The two gave each other a quick high-five before Anna told them to enjoy their food and drinks and left them to be alone again.

“You’re nothing like I thought you were, Emma Swan,” Killian said while shaking his head, his lips curled into a smile.

“Is that a good thing?”

He didn’t answer, instead he took a sip of his boring coffee and the question was left unanswered, occasionally reminding Emma of its presence by buzzing in the air.

“What do you do in your off-time?” he eventually asked.

Emma did absolutely nothing in her free time. She usually had none, always busy working that she’d forget to even eat. All of her friends—she had like four, but who cared—knew that and tended to bring her food to make sure she was fed and to use as an opportunity to hang out.

“Not an awful lot,” she told him truthfully. “I’m famous for working a lot. I am going to attempt to start working out again now that I’m here. You?” She drank from her cup.

“I read a lot, like to go to museums. Like any Brit, I like watching football. Proper football,” he specified. “Not some American BS.”

“Hey,” she objected. She might not be a sports person but she was still American. “Have some respect, please. Besides, at least American football has some action going on. Soccer is pretty boring.”

“Take that back,” he threatened with his teaspoon, his eyes turning into slits.

Emma shook her head defiantly.

“Fine, you’ve left me no choice.” He raised his shoulders. “I will have to make you watch a football match.”

“And how exactly are you going to do that?” She cockily challenged him by resting her head on her palm and leaning closer. “I don’t really get pressured into things.”

“I’ll kindly ask you to come to my flat to watch a match. Food and beer will be present and in the unlikely event that you are bored, we can watch something else.”

Emma watched him. Going to his apartment, eating together, cozying it up while watching television it all seemed slightly too… well cozy. Slightly too date-like. But what choice did she have but to accept? Getting closer would mean more information and it wasn’t as if spending time with Killian would be the worst thing the world. Far from it, actually.

“Okay,” she agreed. “But you need to make sure you have beer because I don’t think I’ll survive it otherwise.”

“And people tell me I’m dramatic. But that’s a deal.”

They continued to talk about other mundane, safe stuff. What kind of movies they liked and whether London was a better place than Boston (Killian said yes, Emma said no.) Before they knew it, hours had passed and they’d both drank two drinks and she’d eaten two cupcakes (So. good.)

“I better get going,” Emma said. “I still have some groceries to do.”

She began to gather her stuff, her bag and coat on the chair, her umbrella in the corner, before standing up. Killian followed her immediately.

“I had fun today, Swan,” he told her and she couldn't help but nod along. She’d truly enjoyed the time they had spent together today, maybe even more so than last time.

“I did too.” She zipped up the zipper of her coat. “Just text me your address and when you wanna bore me to death by forcing me to watch soccer.”

“Mark my words, Emma Swan. You are going to hate how much you’ll love it.”

And the only word she could think of to describe the way he promised her that was confident. Confident and sexy.

But she refused to agree, it didn’t matter how sexy that irritating smirk was. “That’s what you think.”

“Oh, trust me. I know.”

“Bye, Jones.” She started walking away, waving to Anna as she made her way to the exit.

“Oh, and Swan,” Killian spoke just as she was about to open the door.

“Yeah?” Emma turned back to him, a questioning eyebrow raised.

“This isn’t a date,” he dared to tell her.

Emma scoffed. “You wish, Jones.”

A salacious grin as he waved her goodbye left Emma leaving with her own grin.

---------------------------------

Today is actually the three-year-anniversary of my blog and the three-year-anniversary of me writing fic so I'd like to thank you all for following me and/or reading the things I write. It means the world to me! We'll meet here again on Thursday <3

#csbb #captain swan big bang #cs ff #captain swan #cs au #my words and sentences #AMHoG

67 notes · View notes

geisternatur · 3 years ago

Video

youtube

Pulp - This Is Hardcore

you are hardcore, you make me hard you name the drama and I'll play the part it seems I saw you in some teenage wet dream i like your get-up, if you know what I mean

i want it bad i want it now oh, can't you see I'm ready now? i've seen all the pictures, i've studied them forever

i want to make a movie, so let's star in it together don't make a move till I say "action" oh, here comes the hardcore life put your money where your mouth is tonight

leave your make-up on and Ií'll leave on the light come over here, babe, and talk in the mic oh yeah, i hear you now it's gonna be one hell of a night

you can't be a spectator, oh no you got to take these dreams and make them whole oh, this is hardcore there is no way back for you

oh, this is hardcore this is me on top of you and I can't believe it took me this long that it took me this long

this is the eye of the storm it's what men in stained raincoats pay for but in here it is pure, yeah this is the end of the line

i've seen the storyline played out so many times before oh, that goes in there then that goes in there then that goes in there

then that goes in there and then it's over Oh, what a hell of a show But what I want to knowWhat exactly do you do for an encore? 'Cause this is hardcore

#pulp #music #video #lyrics #film noir inspo in technicolours #also it's quite a sexy song

0 notes

blondrichclosetwitch · 4 years ago

Text

You are hardcore, you make me hard

You name the drama and I'll play the part

It seems I saw you in some teenage wet dream

I like your get-up, if you know what I mean

I want it bad

I want it now

Oh, can't you see I'm ready now?

I've seen all the pictures, I've studied them forever

I want to make a movie, so let's star in it together

Don't make a move till I say "action"

Oh, here comes the hardcore life

Put your money where your mouth is tonight

Leave your make-up on and I'll leave on the light

Come over here, babe, and talk in the mic

Oh yeah, I hear you now

It's gonna be one hell of a night

You can't be a spectator, oh no

You got to take these dreams and make them whole

Oh, this is hardcore

There is no way back for you

Oh, this is hardcore

This is me on top of you

And I can't believe it took me this long

That it took me this long

This is the eye of the storm

It's what men in stained raincoats pay for

But in here it is pure, yeah

This is the end of the line

I've seen the storyline played out so many times before

Oh, that goes in there

Then that goes in there

And then it's over

Oh, what a hell of a show

But what I want to know

What exactly do you do for an encore?

'Cause this is hardcore

#I’ve seen this storyline played out so many times before

0 notes

artepoetica · 6 years ago

Video

youtube

Pulp - This Is Hardcore

You are hardcore, you make me hard You name the drama and I'll play the part It seems I saw you in some teenage wet dream I like your get-up if you know what I mean

I want it bad, I want it now Oh, can't you see I'm ready now

I've seen all the pictures, I've studied them forever I wanna make a movie so let's star in it together Don't make a move 'til I say, "Action"

Oh, here comes the hardcore life

Put your money where your mouth is tonight Leave your make-up on and I'll leave on the light Come over here babe and talk in the mic Oh, yeah, I hear you now It's gonna be one hell of a night

You can't be a spectator Oh, no You got to take these dreams and make them whole Oh, this is hardcore There is no way back for you Oh, this is hardcore This is me on top of you And I can't believe it took me this long That it took me this long

This is the eye of the storm It's what men in stained raincoats pay for But in here it is pure

This is the end of the line I've seen the storyline played out so many times before

Oh, that goes in there Then that goes in there Then that goes in there Then that goes in there And then it's over

Oh, what a hell of a show But what I want to know What exactly do you do for an encore?

'Cause this is hardcore

0 notes

jaimelesmotsetlesimages · 8 years ago

Quote

You are hardcore, you make me hard You name the drama and I'll play the part It seems I saw you in some teenage wet dream I like your get-up, if you know what I mean I want it bad I want it now Oh, can't you see I'm ready now? I've seen all the pictures, I've studied them forever I want to make a movie, so let's star in it together Don't make a move till I say "action" Oh, here comes the hardcore life Put your money where your mouth is tonight Leave your make-up on and I'll leave on the light Come over here, babe, and talk in the mic Oh yeah, I hear you now It's gonna be one hell of a night You can't be a spectator, oh no You got to take these dreams and make them whole Oh, this is hardcore There is no way back for you Oh, this is hardcore This is me on top of you And I can't believe it took me this long That it took me this long This is the eye of the storm It's what men in stained raincoats pay for But in here it is pure, yeah This is the end of the line I've seen the storyline played out so many times before Oh, that goes in there Then that goes in there Then that goes in there Then that goes in there And then it's over Oh, what a hell of a show But what I want to know What exactly do you do for an encore? 'Cause this is hardcore

Pulp - This Is Hardcore

0 notes

glenpeters-blog1 · 8 years ago

Text

Luck Man

Glen Peters

5th February, 2017

FADE IN:

INT - OFFICE. DAY

Nine suited men sit round a long desk in a plush office. One man, GARY (late 30's, handsome but rough around the edges), stands before the others, and talks passionately beside a whiteboard, gesticulating, and pointing at the charts, and graphs on it.

GARY

And that's why as a company we must stop selling earbuds. I'm sure you'll agree with my conclusion that we could successfully pivot to help alleviate rural poverty in the developing world. Thank you.

A smattering of applause from round the table greets GARY's conclusion. At the head of the table a man, the BOSS (50's, Trump hair, stony expression), in clearly the most expensive suit in the room, waits until GARY is halfway down to sit on his chair before raising one hand, which silences the applause, and makes GARY freeze, still not sat down.

BOSS

What's the name of this company?

Hands shoot up around the table.

GARY

Earbuddies.

BOSS

If you don't want to sell earbuds, you won't have to.

GARY

We're changing direction?

BOSS

You are. Pivot towards the Jobcentre. You're fired. My father sold earbuds. His father sold earbuds.

GARY stands and walks to the door followed by the BOSS's tirade.

BOSS (shouting)

As did his father before that. My ancestors were making earbuds for the fucking Romans! That spear in Jesus's side was a prototype giant earbud -

CUT TO:

EXT. STREET - SAME

A busy central London street, people in raincoats or under brollies hurrying past, traffic unceasing on the road

GARY leaves the office, and rain immediately starts falling.

GARY

Beth's going to kill me. She's really going to kill me.

CUT TO:

EXT. GARY'S HOUSE - SAME.

Rain falls on a quiet residential street. A soaked GARY walks up his drive, and takes out his keys. He breathes deeply, and unlocks the front door, and goes inside.

CUT TO:

INT. GARY'S HOUSE - SAME

In the hallway, against a line of coats that are hanging against the far wall, a man, JEFF (30's, tight jeans with turn-ups, which are round his ankles, and trendy hair) and woman, BETH (20's, hot, long hair stuck to her face with sweat, tight dress hitched up over her hips) are fucking standing up. They're very loud, and haven't heard GARY enter.

GARY

I'm home.

BETH screams at the sound of his voice, then looks at him over her shoulder.

BETH

Why are you home now?

JEFF

It's not what it looks like, mate.

GARY

Looks like my best friend fucking my girlfriend, Jeff.

JEFF

OK. I walked into that one. It is a teeny tiny bit what it looks like.

BETH (passionately to JEFF)

Don't stop!

JEFF

No?

GARY

No? You could have a breather.

BETH

Why aren't you at work?

GARY

They didn't like my moonshot idea.

BETH

You bloody idiot! I told you not to mention that. How will we pay the bills now big shot?

JEFF

It is pretty irresponsible man.

GARY

Maybe Jeff can help you with those now? Anyway, listen, I better go as this is kinda killing me.

GARY leaves. The sounds of fucking follow him out.

CUT TO:

EXT. GARY'S HOUSE - SAME

GARY posts his keys through the letterbox. Thunder crackles overhead. He walks away from the house.

GARY

Should've picked up my coat. Would've been awkward reaching though, with them fucking against it.

CUT TO:

INT. OFF-LICENCE - NIGHT

GARY, absolutely sodden, and looking totally bereft, places a pack of four beers on the counter, and hands a five-pound note to the ATTENDANT (20's, huge, bearded man with spectacles).

ATTENDANT

This is a Scottish note.

GARY

This is Britain.

ATTENDANT

This is England.

GARY

Within Britain.

ATTENDANT

I can't accept it.

GARY

It's legal tender.

ATTENDANT

It's toilet paper. And we sell that here.

GARY

I don't have anything else.

ATTENDANT

Then you're out of luck. Unless.

GARY

Unless...?

ATTENDANT

Look at me. Girls won't. (beat) I'm so lonely. I haven't had a blowjob since I was a teenager.

GARY

You'll get there champ.

ATTENDANT

Do you find me attractive?

GARY

Well I'm straight, so...

ATTENDANT

Answer the question.

EXT. OFF-LICENCE - SAME

Sat in the rain on the tarmac forecourt of the off-licence/garage, GARY cracks open a beer and goes to drink but is interrupted by a SCRUFFY MAN (60's, tobacco stained white beard, ragged clothes, and taped up shoes).

SCRUFFY MAN

Spare any change mate?

GARY

I have five pounds in the whole world. You can't want that?

SCRUFFY MAN

Why can't I? It's five pounds more than I have.

GARY hands over the fiver.

SCRUFFY MAN

What's this? Monopoly money?

GARY

It's fucking legal fucking tender.

SCRUFFY MAN

Can I have a beer instead then?

GARY

You know what? Take them all, clean me out. I've lost my job, I've been fired, I'm homeless (trails off, despairing)

SCRUFFY MAN

If I had a quid for every time that had happened to me, I'd buy a scratch card.

GARY stands and walks from the petrol garage/off-licence. When he has gone a short distance, he falls to his knees and looks up at the rain.

GARY

What next?

A lightning bolt flashes from the sky and strikes GARY.

GARY crawls away groaning.

GARY (in a pained whisper)

What are the chances?

A second lightning bolt strikes GARY.

SCRUFFY MAN runs over.

SCRUFFY MAN

You should put that shit fiver on the lottery.

GARY groans.

SCRUFFY MAN picks up GARY, and walks him to the garage.

GARY

He doesn't accept Scottish money in there.

SCRUFFY MAN

Yeah he does. I'll get five scratch cards.

CUT TO:

EXT. OFF-LICENCE - SAME

SCRUFFY MAN and GARY use their fingernails to scratch, and each lottery card is a winner, though only for a pound.

SCRUFFY MAN

You're the luckiest man in the world.

GARY

Yeah, that's me. I'll use my powers to change this world for the better.

SCRUFFY MAN

Can I have the scratch cards then?

A deep, and sinister laugh booms from the darkness, and then sputters into a coughing fit, and a CAT (5, black with white paws) stumbles into the light besides LUCK MAN, and SCRUFFY MAN. They stare at the CAT, their fear changing to disgust and then sympathy as it finally hocks up a fur ball.

LUCK MAN

You alright?

CAT

Fools! The great and mighty lord Karkagath approaches! Your puny powers will not save this doomed planet! You're fucked!

SCRUFFY MAN

And he sent a cat to warn us?

CAT

It's not a warning. That suggests you could avoid destruction. You can't. I'm intimidating you.

LUCK MAN (from SCRUFFY MAN's cue)

It's less intimidating when you explain it.

CAT

I'm sowing despair.

LUCK MAN

Well, you're a good looking chap.

CAT

Thank you. I was going for abominable.

SCRUFFY MAN

Would you like a treat?

CAT

What were you thinking?

SCRUFFY MAN

How about some catnip?

FADE OUT

FADE IN

EXT. OFF-LICENCE, SAME

The cat plays with the catnip, the two men watch, and then SCRUFFY MAN pulls LUCK MAN aside.

SCRUFFY MAN

You see all sorts of shit living on the streets. I wish I could say this is a first for me.

LUCK MAN

You've heard a cat talk before?

SCRUFFY MAN nods slowly.

SCRUFFY MAN

Last week in fact. In Tottenham Hale. It's making sense now. You're not alone.

LUCK MAN

No. You're here. And the cat. I guess he counts.

SCRUFFY MAN

I mean you're not the only one with powers. I met a woman in Tottenham Hale. She had an especially small head. But that wasn't her power. She could fly.

LUCK MAN

Fuck. Really?

SCRUFFY MAN (nods conspiratorially)

But only knee high. Still, I know where she is. I could help you find her.

LUCK MAN

Lead the way.

End

#script #sketch #comedy #five minute film #forgive the formatting #worst superhero #second draft

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